Project Moses - A Mystery Thriller (Enzo Lee Mystery-Thriller Series)

by Robert B. Lowe

In the cool morning air, Lee jogged hard through Central Park until he reached the Terrace, a raised area overlooking the park’s lake surrounded with blackened ornamental stone carvings of plants, birds and animals nearly ruined by pollution and neglect. He stopped and began going through his tai chi warmup exercises.

  After his warmup was completed, Lee went into one of the sets that Master Chu had been teaching him. He began by slowly pulling his right hand back behind his head. Then, he brought it forward as if striking a blow at someone in front of him as he stepped forward with his left foot in the maneuver Chu had called “patting the horse on the back.”

  Lee went through several slow and elaborate kicking maneuvers and followed those with the movements that Chu called “striking the opponents ears with both fists.” It consisted of slow arcing movements of the arms combined with slow high steps and culminated in his fists coming together powerfully at his imaginary opponent’s head.

  While he moved, Lee concentrated on keeping his breathing slow, deep and regular. He focused on a point below his navel, his center, to enhance his sense of balance. He tried to stay totally relaxed and not let resistance in his muscles interfere with his movements.

  After he had worked through several different sets, Lee felt a new lightness and energy. He realized how tense he had been in his neck and shoulders, only because the tension had left him. He was whistling to himself as he began a slow jog back to the hotel.

  The traffic had picked up considerably. Lee dodged the early wave of pedestrians hitting the streets on their way to work. Two blocks from the hotel, he stopped at a corner news stand and bought the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post.

  On the third page of the Times, he found a story with a dateline from Havana:

  CASTRO BLAMES CIA FOR FAILED CROP

  Havana - Cuban premier Fidel Castro said today that Cuba’s worst sugar crop in 30 years was the result of a CIA plot and claimed to have United States government documents supporting his allegation. Castro also said that a mysterious illness that has afflicted an estimated 150,000 of his countrymen also was the product of intrigue by the United States and Cuban exiles living in Miami.

  Castro’s remarks came during a three-hour speech he gave in Havana, honoring the island nation’s farmers. Observers believed the speech was an attempt to inspire sugar growers and their farm workers to salvage as much as possible of the sugar crop which is halfway through the growing season and has been afflicted by an unidentified blight.

  Brandishing documents that he said provided proof of his claims originally made several weeks ago, Castro saved his harshest criticism for Cuban exiles whom he described as “crawling lapdogs of imperialist parasites.” Castro said his intelligence service had learned that the Miami exile community had implemented the program of crop destruction and human illness, which he described as “brother poisoning brother.”

  After his speech, Castro provided journalists with copies of the documents he said proved his claims. They included an apparent copy of an FBI investigative report in which a confidential informant reported that biological weapons originating in the United States were being supplied to terrorists and foreign nations.

  The company identified as the suspected supplier in the documents is AgriGenics, Inc., a California-based company that specializes in the genetic engineering of agricultural products. A company spokesman said yesterday that Castro’s allegations were “pure fantasy.” CIA officials also denied Castro’s charges.

  When he got back to the room, Sarah was up and Sendaki had brought in coffees and bagels from the deli next to the hotel. Lee showed them the Times article. While they read it, he paged quickly through the other papers. He found a similar piece buried deep in the Washington Post.

  “So, where does this get us?” asked Sendaki after he had read both articles.

  “It gets us started,” said Lee. “I don’t pretend that we’ve got them on the run, but it’s a start. We keep building from here.”

  Lee kept the television on and tuned to CNN. Around 11 a.m., he noticed that the all-news channel was broadcasting footage from a press conference. He turned up the volume. A mustachioed man in a business suit appeared to be reading from several pages laying on the podium in front of him. Lee turned up the volume.

  “We believe that the damage to the Kurdistan wheat crop and the disease that has afflicted the sheep in the same region are the result of biological weapons used by the ruling Iraqi regime,” read the man at the podium in a slow monotone. “We further believe that the Iraqis have been assisted in this crime, which ultimately will lead to famine in the affected areas, by an American company called AgriGenics.”

  “It is our belief that this corporation provided the instruments of destruction and we call upon the American government to investigate how these weapons have fallen into the hands of the Iraqis, our mutual enemy.”

  When the broadcast was finished, Sendaki, Sarah and Lee looked at each other.

  “Wow,” said Sarah, breaking the silence.

  “Yeah,” said Lee. “It has some impact when you hear it read on television like that. Keep in mind, though, that AgriGenics will deny everything. And, their friends in the CIA, or wherever they are in the government, may help them put a safe spin on the story.”

  “Still, it is a story that will get their undivided attention,” said Sendaki.

  “Right,” said Lee. “They will know exactly where it’s coming from and they will do everything they can think of to find us.”

  Lee picked up the telephone and called the main number at the New York Times. He asked the operator for Barry Templeton.

  “Barry? It’s Enzo.”

  “Enzo, m’ boy. You’re back? Have you been spending my money wisely?”

  “Yeah, Barry. I’ve been betting it on the Mets, so what do you think?”

  “Ooh. A knife to the heart,” said Templeton. “Listen, boy. The Mets will be back. You will be seeing them playing in late October soon. In the mean time, remind me never to follow your investment advice.”

  “Okay, Barry. Look, I promised I’d have something for you and I’m ready to make good. Have you been following this business about a company called AgriGenics?”

  “Sounds familiar. I recall reading something about them this morning,” said Templeton. “Refresh my memory, Enzo.”

  “Okay. Yesterday, Castro interrupted one of his marathon speeches and blamed the company for helping the Cuban exiles to ruin Cuba’s sugar crop and for a mysterious epidemic of some sort.”

  “C’mon, Enzo. Castro’s been a raving paranoid for three decades.”

  “No, wait, Barry. If you tune into CNN, you’ll find a spokesman for the Kurdish rebels saying the same thing except this time the bad guys are…guess who?”

  “You mean Public Enemy Number One? Saddam?”

  “The same,” said Lee.

  “Hmmm. Okay, you’ve got me interested. Go on.”

  “If you keep your ears opened, you might hear similar allegations coming from the Bosnian Muslims in the next couple of days, too.”

  “Good, good. I like it,” said Templeton.

  “Okay, here’s where you and I come in,” said Lee. “I happen to have in my pocket some internal records of AgriGenics…computer printouts…showing substantial transfers of funds to the company from offshore bank accounts.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Right. We’re talking twenty-five percent of revenues easy. I’ve also got some other records that show shipments overseas on the same dates as almost all of the wire transfers.”

  “Shipments to whom?” asked Templeton.

  “To companies that we haven’t been able to locate either in this country or where these shipments went,” said Lee.

  “Shipments of what?”

  “The records don’t say,” said Lee. “Oil drums of something. But, Barry, AgriGenics’ whole reputation is built on genetic engineering. You know, making better wheat, bigger apples, microbes that
kill parasites, that sort of thing.”

  “So, you’re saying that by definition everything they make is high-tech. So, they can’t just claim they’re sending kerosene or cowshit or something?”

  “Right. And there’s another element, Barry.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ve seen their annual report. It doesn’t mention any international sales.”

  “Nothing?” said Templeton.

  “Zip. Not even a footnote about currency exchange rates or taxes.”

  “How can a company getting a quarter of its revenue from selling biotech products overseas not even mention the fact in its public reports?”

  “It’s a good question, Barry. I’m sure a few shareholders might ask it, too.”

  “Okay, Enzo. I think I can get this into the paper without too much bitching and moaning. But, is this it? I expect more for my money, you know.”

  “Don’t be a jerk, Barry.”

  “Enzo. No need for fucking hostility, boy. I just want to know if you’re holding out on me.”

  “Yeah, Barry. I am. I’ve got some more to come. I know this story doesn’t yet meet your criteria of global importance, but it gets better. Believe me. My advice is to come along for the ride.”

  “All right, Enzo. With you as my pilot, consider me aboard. Just don’t crash, okay?”

  Chapter 36

  ROY CURLEY SAT with his elbows on his desktop with his hands squeezing his head as if he were testing a big cantaloupe. The AgriGenics Vice President of Marketing and Communications squeezed so hard that when he relaxed the pressure, he had white patches on his forehead where his fingers had been.

  Strewn across the desktop were newspapers from New York, Washington D.C., Los Angeles, San Jose and San Francisco. He had spent the past twenty minutes reading the articles about AgriGenics. After reading the previous day’s stories about the Castro speech and seeing the Kurdish rebels press conference the next day, Curley knew what to expect. He was thankful that almost all of the newspapers had played the story inside, usually buried in a half page of short articles about civil wars, droughts and airplane crashes around the world.

  Only the New York Times piece had gotten good play, appearing on the outside of the business section. That was bad enough, considering the influence of the Times. Worst yet, the reporter claimed to have internal company records that documented the company’s shipment of products overseas and substantial revenue from abroad, elements of AgriGenics’ business that were curiously omitted from the company’s filings with the Securities and Exchange Commission.

  Curley didn’t know whether the Times information was really that damaging. After all, strong international sales of legitimate products typically are a plus for a company. But, he knew the competing press would smell blood in the Times story. The media pack would be set loose on them. The other papers and television hotshots would be drooling to get a piece. Already, he had gotten calls from six newspapers as well as ABC and CBS.

  Finally, the telephone rang. Curley picked it up.

  “Get in here,” the voice said, sounding strained. Curley had been waiting for the call for half an hour. He wondered why it had taken Brian Graylock so long to finally make it.

  When he stepped into Graylock’s office, Curley felt more dwarfed than usual despite his lanky height. It was a pretty morning. The brown hills outside the large windows looked golden in the morning sun’s long rays. However, Curley was oblivious to anything outside the windows. His attention was completely absorbed by the back of the man who stood at the windows facing out.

  Brian Graylock was wearing an immaculate charcoal gray suit with thin pinstripes. His cufflinks were 24-carat gold, weighing an ounce each, and were in the shape of the letter “G.” His hair glistened and was brushed straight back as if he had just dived into a pool and come back to the surface.

  When Graylock turned around, he was smiling. He was also looking at the wall above Curley rather than at Curley himself.

  “Do you know what happened to us in the market today?” he asked, still smiling at a spot above Curley’s head. “Down. Six points. From thirty-four to twenty-eight, just like that.”

  Graylock lowered his gaze to Curley’s face. He wasn’t smiling now. He was almost expressionless except for the muscles tensed in his neck and face.

  “We are getting killed,” he said slowly through teeth that were clenched. “We are getting absolutely massacred.”

  Curley felt a sharp pain in his gut. He imagined the gastric acid washing over his ulcer. He wished he had taken the time for a gulp of the Maalox that sat in his desk drawer. He inched across the office and stood before Graylock with the desk between them.

  “Brian,” said Curley. “I don’t know what we can do to stop it. We’ve sent out four press releases already denying everything. If it were Sendaki making the allegations or that reporter or the woman, we could respond. But, what can you say about the Kurdish rebels? And, taking on the Times could be counterproductive.”

  “You!” Graylock shouted it so sharply and suddenly that Curley stumbled backward in surprise. “You are no help! Absolutely no help!”

  Graylock’s handsome visage was red with rage now. The muscles around the right side of his handsome face were twitching.

  “Who is the reporter at the Times? Who is this Barry Templeton?” Graylock was firing the words at Curley in angry, jagged bursts. Curley felt like he was being physically assaulted by them.

  “Enzo Lee is feeding him! Follow him! Eventually he’ll lead us to Lee! Do it! Now!”

  As Curley walked backwards across the office toward the door, he resisted an urge to clasp his hands together and bow his way out.

  Graylock turned back toward the windows and resumed his stare out toward the golden hills. Even alone in his office, he was outwardly composed but seething inside.

  “Incompetents,” he thought to himself. “Goddamn, fucking incompetents. I’m surrounded by them. Why must I do everything myself?”

  Ever since his security men had intercepted the telephone call from Brent Donsen, leading Graylock to confront Sendaki about the moot court case, he had been under incredible stress.

  Graylock suddenly felt the craving. It was one he thought he had left behind him eight years earlier. But, it was back now, stronger than ever. He imagined a six inch line of pure cocaine in front of him, being sucked into his aquiline nose through a $100 bill.

  He had tried earlier in the morning to get Ross Drexler, a senior vice president of Goldman Sachs, on the phone. That was three hours ago and Drexler still hadn’t returned his call. He knew that if he had made the call two days earlier, before the articles began, Drexler would have dropped everything to get back to him.

  Everyone was abandoning him. He had come so far, too goddamn far to let this slip through his fingers. He was going to have to pull it off alone. He knew he could do it if it didn’t get any worse. First, he had to stop the articles at any cost. They were like a hemorrhage. If they stopped now, he could repair the damage. He would show them. He would do it himself like he had done everything else.

  Graylock wondered if his old supplier was still in business. He had to be, unless he was dead or in jail. Graylock picked up one of the phones and dialed his number. Eight years and he still remembered it.

  • • •

  “ALL RIGHT, BOY,” said Barry Templeton. “What ya got for me today?”

  “C’mon, Barry,” said Lee. “What is this? You think you can just order them up like a plate of eggs?”

  Lee and Templeton sat at a small diner four blocks from the New York Times. Templeton was, in fact, working on a plate of scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese melted on top. Lee sipped his coffee and watched Templeton eat.

  “Look, Enzo. I had to hype this story like crazy to get the play I got today. I got editors expecting another Watergate out of this. Don’t turn coy on me now.”

  “Okay, Barry. Just remember how easy this is coming to you.”

  “Wel
l, unless I’ve lost my touch, you aren’t giving this one away completely gratis are you, Enzo? I don’t mean the money. I mean this is helping get your proverbial ass out of a sling, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. A very tight and uncomfortable sling. I guess you’re right, Barry. Okay, we’ll call it even. So, you want to know what’s next?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Lee pulled some folded pages out of the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He laid them flat on the table between them.

  “These are sworn affidavits from three AgriGenics employees. The only condition is that I promised them their identities absolutely would not be revealed without their permission. I need your agreement on that.”

  “Jesus, Enzo. I can’t make that kind of promise,” said Tempeton. “I’m as ready to go to the slammer as the next guy. It’ll make my fucking reputation. But, I’m sure as hell not going to spend the rest of my life there if some judge goes nuts on me.”

  “Sorry, Barry. That has to be the deal.”

  “C’mon, Enzo. You can’t do this to me. Hey, let’s say sixty days. I’ll spend at least sixty days in the slammer.”

  “Nope.”

  “All right. Ninety. I’ll do ninety.”

  “This isn’t negotiable, Barry.”

  “All right you goddamn sonofabitch. I’ll do a fucking year. A fucking year out of my life. My kids will forget who I am. What more can you ask?”

  “The ultimate sacrifice, Barry. No. I didn’t mean that. If it’s the gas chamber, or however they’re killing people in New York nowadays, you get off the hook. Seriously. If you get nailed for contempt, I’ll go back to these guys and do everything I can to get them to relent. I promise.”

  “You’re a hard ass, Enzo. Okay. It goes against my better judgment. But, what the hell. So, what do these gems say?”

  “In a nutshell, they say AgriGenics is doing large scale experimenting and cultivation of genetically engineered plants without getting the required approval of the federal government,” said Lee. “The worst thing is that they’re playing with some pretty nasty plant diseases. I’ve included a memo that makes clear how that violates the law.”